


Fate is not all

by Tosser101



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28153539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tosser101/pseuds/Tosser101
Summary: Folkar wakes up in a strange land with no memories. Follow his adventures through this realm of danger and magic.
Relationships: Aela the Huntress/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Astrid/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Elisif the Fair
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind, this is my first time. Always wanted to write about the stories in my head. Hopefully this is only the first instalment in a long series.

He was running. Branches lashed his face as the thicket grew denser. No time to look back, see if they were following. The blond man ran alongside him. He wasn’t swearing anymore. No breath left, he guessed. How long had they been running? It felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Without warning, a shape loomed large in front of him. The man with the cloak had stopped. His face was ashen. Before them, rows upon rows of archers waited.   
Ambush.

Chapter 1.

He was woken by the rumbling of a cart. He felt a swaying sensation that did nothing to help his pounding skull. He moved his hand to pull himself upright, but they were tied. What was happening? Where was he? The headache prevented any attempt at recollection, however, so he decided to simply take stock of his surroundings and leave the questions for later. He groaned, raising his bound hands to shield his eyes from the glare of the cold morning sun.

A voice to his right startled him. “Ah, so you’re finally awake. They caught you trying to cross the border, same as us and that horse thief over there.” It was the blond man from before. Who was he again? Still, no answer came to mind. His mind drifted into the hazy fog of his memories while the blond man and the supposed thief bickered back and forth.

His attention was drawn back to their conversation however when the blond man snarled at the thief. “Watch your tongue! You are in the presence of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!” The fear on the thief's face made him realise that the cloaked man from before, who until now had remained silent, had been bound and gagged, and yet still drew fearful looks from the soldiers guarding the cart. The conversation between the blond man and the thief continued, but his gaze was drawn to the walled town that had come into view. There seemed to be no end to the soldiers on the battlements and inside the walls.

“Ah, Helgen.” the blond man spoke again, a wistful tone in his voice. He began waxing lyrical about some juniper berry mead, but the blond man’s voice was barely even registering. He had just spotted their apparent destination. An executioner's block.

As the carts ground to a halt, the soldiers began swarming them, pulling the prisoners down and marching them into double files. A kindly looking soldier with some sort of list began calling roll. Apparently the blond man was Ralof of Riverwood, and the horse thief was Lokir of Rorikstead. Or was, anyways. After a slightly pathetic attempt at escape, he was cut down by the archers with brutal precision. 

As their names were called, the prisoners were dragged over to the block. As it became his turn, the soldier calling roll checked his list, and a frown creased his face. “You don’t appear to be on my list, citizen. Who are you?” After a few moments hesitation, the man looked down. With a gruff but quiet voice, he whispered, “I don't know ser. My memories are gone.” The soldier looked him over, thinking aloud. “Tall, broad shoulders, pale skin. At a guess, I'd say a Nord for sure. But with hair as white as that and..” he leaned in. “Yeah, i'm not wrong. Yellow eyes? You're certainly an oddity. Well you have to have a name? Any ideas?” he looked around. Another pause. “Maybe, Folar?” he whispered, looking towards Ralof. The soldier looked at him, rolling his eyes, and scribbled the name down. “How about Folkar? Makes more sense than Folar. Right, Folkar, what to do with you.” 

He raised his voice to the female soldier in full heavy armour, clearly some kind of high-ranking officer. “Captain, this one’s not on the list. What should i do with him?” The captain looked over with barely concealed contempt at Folkar. “Same as the others. He goes to the block.” The soldier looked like he wanted to argue, but an angry clance from the captain forestalled any argument. He looked at Folkar with no small amount of shame and gestured towards the block. In a quiet and defeated voice he sighed “Well, you heard her. Off you go now prisoner.” 

Folkar stumbled to the line of shackled Nords and drew to a halt. As the first prisoner was dragged forward, a priestess began reciting some kind of prayer to the eight Divines, whoever they were. She was interrupted by a prisoner marching forward, complaining that they should hurry up. Within seconds, he had stopped complaining, as his head was no longer attached to his neck. 

A firm hand on Folkar’s back indicated that his turn was next. Before he could move, a shriek pierced the early morn. Unsettled, the soldiers began shifting warily, but drew up at hissed command from the cow of a captain. A swift kick to Folkar’s knee drove him to the ground, and the two soldiers forced his head onto the block. 

Another noise, this time deeper and seemingly closer, rocked the macabre serenity. A glare from the captain refocused the headsman, and he moved to begin the greataxe’s swing. Folkar’s bewilderment and fear created an almost dreamlike trance in his mind, and he watched calmly as the axe rose to its zenith. A somewhat peaceful thought drifted across his mind.  
“I see. So this is how I die. How … ordinary.”

The trance was broken, however, when the third roar happened. Most notably, though, was that the roar was accompanied by a ghoulish black winged beast. Folkar froze as the courtyard around him burst into frenzied activity. A cry rose into the air, just a single word.  
“Dragon!!”  
So, this creature was a dragon. Struck dumb, Folkar just stood and watched as this monstrosity began breathing great gouts of flame at the town from atop its perch on the tower. It must have had a wingspan of at least 60 feet, and was covered head to toe in rough black scales that seemed to absorb the light around it. Looking at it was like looking at a living shadow, with deep crimson eyes akin to glowing coals in a furnace. Its very presence seemed to emanate hatred and rage, and Folkar found himself cowering behind the very block his head was on moments before. Here stood death incarnate. Seeing him, Folkar felt despair well up inside. How could man compare? Who could stand up to such evil? 

He stood rooted to the spot, frozen in fear. His body seemed sluggish, uncooperative. He felt a hand on his shoulder, jerking him from his trance. Ralof stood behind him, shouting. As he refocused, he heard Ralof yell “Quick! Take shelter in the tower! Move, or we’ll end up in Sovngarde!”

Folkar took a deep, heaving breath. The tower Ralof had half dragged him into was now playing haven to the surviving prisoners. Folkar noted without much shock that the gagged man from earlier, Ulfric, was alive and leading the remaining survivors. His cold hard eyes swept the room, passing right over Folkar without the slightest hesitation. As he began issuing orders, Folkar once again felt Ralof tugging on his worn grey shirt. “Quick, we’ll scout out the tower. We should be able to spot a safe path from the top.” With a nod, the pair set off, following the winding stairs up. Their journey was cut short by a thunderous rumbling, and they watched in horror as a section of the wall not ten feet ahead was caved in. A great black snout nosed in the newly made hole, and Folkars vision was suddenly awash with fire. As the dragon pulled away, Folkar and Ralof raised their heads and looked at eachother. Both seemed to take comfort in the fear evident in the other, as if confirming that this hellish nightmare was in fact real. 

Taking a few nervous steps forward, Ralof peeked out the newly made hole. Gesturing Folkar to follow, he pointed down at a ruined building adjacent to the tower. “There, that's our way out. Head through the inn, and we’ll meet you in the courtyard. Our best escape route is the sewers. Fuck going by the gate, that monster is probably watching there to kill those who flee. You go first, and I'll follow when I can.” ignoring the gnawing pit of fear in his gut, Folkar swallowed and leapt to the building below. 

Landing with a thud, he took off quickly. By the door of the old inn, he ran straight into the soldier with the list, knocking him to the ground. After a quick staredown, the soldier grimaced and said “Look, believe it or not, I'm glad youre not dead. Although, if you want to stay that way, follow me. I'm going to join up with my regiment and do my duty. Join me, and I'm sure we can convince the captain to waive your sentence.” Hesitant, Folkar decided that he didn't exactly have much choice but to follow.

They reached the courtyard only to be greeted by complete pandemonium. Soldiers screaming, burning, shouting. Folkar began analyzing the situation, looking for the most advantageous position. He shook his head. Why was he doing that? What instincts were coming to the fore? Who was he? Again, he shook his head. No time for that. He saw Ralof across the yard, sprinting full tilt towards him. 

Ralof slowed to a jog when he noticed the soldier standing next to Folkar. “Hadvar.” he spat. “By Talos, you have some nerve showing your face. I should strike you where you stand.” Hadvar answered with equal anger, although Folkar noticed a tinge of sadness in his voice. “Ralof. Now is not the time for politics. Lets just get through this, and we can murder each other later.”   
With a snarl, Ralof tore off in the direction of one of the keep doors. Casting a single glance to the soldier, Folkar followed the blond Nord into the keep.

They arrived in a circular room, the only occupant a dead soldier. Ralof gestured to the body, sighing “Take what you can carry. Sorry fuck doesnt need it any more.” Folkar stripped the body of its weapon, a short axe and a bastard sword. He took the greaves and leg armour, but Folkar's sheer bulk rendered the chest piece useless.

After a few swings of the sword, he realised that it felt oddly natural in his hand. Somehow comforted by the weapon, Folkar grunted his assent to move forward. The two of them began their descent, keeping an eye out for any soldiers. A thought occurred to him. “Ralof, who are these soldiers?” Ralof looked back, confused. “Well, they're the military governor’s, Tullius, personal guard.” 

“No,” Folkar shook his head. “Who are they? I've never seen these soldiers before.” Ralof halted in his tracks, half smiling as if Folkar had asked a silly question. “I mean, they are Imperials. Obviously. What do you mean?” Folkar, about to speak, held his tongue. No need to tell people about his ignorance. “Nevermind. Let's keep moving.” Bewildered, Ralof just shrugged and began moving again. 

Soon however, the clash of blades drew closer. Fighting, Folkar surmised. He looked at the sword in his hand. Could he use it? Well, no time like the present. Not like he had much choice. Turning the corner, he saw an Imperial soldier and a hooded figure circling a haggard looking man dressed similarly to Ralof. 

Without thinking, Folkar jumped forward and swung at the hooded man’s exposed side. With a cry, his blade sank into the crook of his neck. It cut through the man like butter, only stopping at his sternum. Folkar ripped the sword out and leapt towards the soldier. The Imperial swung his short sword in an angled uppercut, but to Folkar it seemed as though the soldier was moving through honey. He swayed out of the weapons reach, letting it slice thin air. 

Off balance, there was no way the man could have avoided Folkars thrust. It punched through the light armour and his heart with ease. Folkar let the man’s body drop and sheathed his weapon in one smooth motion. 

Looking up, he saw Ralof and the rescued prisoner staring at him slack jawed. “By Talos, I wouldn't wish to fight you.” breathed Ralof. Uncomfortable, Folkar shrugged and said “Beginners luck. We should keep moving.” Wary, the other began loving. Ralof took one last glance at Folkar as he passed, muttering “By the Nine Divines, we’ll be out of here in no time with you on our side.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liitle bit shorter for this one. Just a bit of info and set up

Chapter 2.

In the end, they encountered very little resistance. Folkar easily dispatched the few soldiers left in the underground tunnels, and in a few short hours they were out in the open air once more. They sat beneath a pine tree and took stock of their surroundings. “If I'm right, Riverwood should be about two miles southeast of here. My sister Gerdur runs the mill there. If you like, you can meet me there and my family will help you out in any way we can.” 

Folkar began to protest, but Ralof waved his words away. “If not for you, we might not have made it out of there alive. You're handy with a blade, that much is obvious. You should think about joining up with the stormcloaks.” He looked west, to the setting sun. “We should get moving. Also, we’ll take different paths, reduce our chances of being caught. Good luck, friend.” With a grin, he set off at a brisk pace, and quickly disappeared into the undergrowth.

The silence allowed Folkar the first moment of calm since he had woken up that morning. He scowled. He still knew nothing of this world, and ignorance could prove deadly. He sighed. Nothing to it other than to follow Ralofs advice. He began wearily trudging in the direction Ralof had given him.

After a half hour’s walk, he came across three standing stones with intricate carvings. As he examined them, he saw an inscription on the base of each stone. They each had a word written on them; warrior, mage and thief. With a start, Folkar realised that he could apparently read this land’s language. Helpful, to say the least. 

His eyes kept being drawn to the middle stone, with the warrior inscription. He reached out his hand to trace the markings, when he felt a low vibration in the air. Stepping back, he drew his sword, looking for any sign of danger. His gaze settled on the stone, and he realised it had begun to glow, if faintly. 

Suddenly, a beam of ethereal light shot from the top of the stone, piercing the evening sky. Lasting only a moment, it faded back into nothingness. Yet Folkar could feel an intrinsic tugging sensation at his very core, linking him to the stone. His muscles seemed ever so slightly more limber, his frame fractionally lighter. A quick swing of his blade confirmed Folkar's hesitant conclusion. He was marginally faster than he had been before. Studying the stone before him with apprehension, he decided to leave this place far behind. Strange powers were at work here, and he would need information before exploring further.

He arrived at a small town as the sun was setting. Seeing the mill close by, he decided that his best bet for bedding tonight was to take Ralof up on his offer. The door was answered by a handsome woman who introduced herself as gerdur. Her thick forearms and broad shoulders showed a lifetime of physical labour. Folkar supposed that running a mill was demanding work. “You must be the man Ralof was talking about. Not many folk ‘round here with hair like that. Come, sit by the hearth. You must be starving.” Stepping inside, he saw Ralof asleep in a chair by the fire. “Passed out not long after telling me his tall tale. Dragons and other such nonsense. He always was one to boast. That said, he's a good man.” 

Folkar waited for her to finish, before saying “It's the truth. Had my head on the block just as that thing showed up. If you'll pardon my language, I damn near wet my britches.” Gerdur looked at him in amazement. “Dragons? They haven't been seen in thousands of years. Truth be told, I always thought they were a myth.”

They talked well into the night, and Folkar learned much about his new world. They were in the northernmost part of Tamriel, in the Empire’s province of Skyrim. The people of Skyrim were called Nords, but there were many different races throughout Tamriel. Skyrim was currently embroiled in a brutal civil war over the Empire’s decision to outlaw the worship of a god named Talos, due to some peace treaty signed thirty years ago. As for the dragons, they once ruled Skyrim, but haven’t been seen in millenia. 

The stone that Folkar had touched however, she had no idea. Apparently most people just considered them good luck, and used them as waymarkers. He was still brimming with questions, but sleep took hold of him before long. As his eyelids grew heavy, a single thought seemed to circle his mind. Who am I?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit more action this time

Chapter 3.

As he crested the hill, the city of Whiterun seemed to rise up from the vast plains before him. Encircled in walls of greying stone, it stood on the only raised ground for miles. The Jarl’s residence, Dragonsreach, was visible even from here. Folkar sighed. Gerdur’s request weighed heavy on his thoughts. Before they had bedded down for the night, she had asked him to report what he had seen at Helgen to the local Jarl, some man named Balgruuf. As thanks for the warm bed, he had agreed. Besides, it made sense to visit the city. There, he could find work and information. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a low roar. Dropping his pack, Folkar drew his sword in a blur, looking for the sound's origin. There. In the field by one of the cottages, several warriors were surrounding a mountainous being. Standing easily twelve feet tall, it was humanoid in appearance. It snarled and swung a club that looked to be the same height as Folkar. He decided that this must be one of the giants gerdur mentioned last night.

Taking a deep breath, Folkar strode forward. Slipping past one of the warriors, he ducked under the giants club and in one smooth movement, dove between the giants leg. As he came up the other side, he pivoted and with one lightning slash, severed the giants hamstring. As the beast collapsed to its knees, Folkar drove his blade through its throat, neatly cleaving its carotid artery. The warriors watched stunned as the monster fell face first into the dirt. The whole process had taken him less than four seconds.

“Impressive.” Folkar looked up. The speaker was a woman, bow slung over her shoulder and warpaint decorating her face. She was blessed with a feral beauty, but despite her words her eyes were hard and unforgiving. “With skill like that, you should consider joining the Companions.” Seeing the confused look he gave her, she elaborated “The warrior guild here in Skyrim. All those who desire glory come to us.” sensing the glares from the others, Folkar gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to leave. After a brief pause, the warrior blocking his path stepped left to let Folkar through. 

The gates loomed large before him. Passing under the wide arch, Folkar made his way through the throng of people. By the looks of it, it was market day today. After stopping a passing merchant for directions, he eventually reached the great doors of the keep. Pushing them open a crack, he went inside. 

Spotting a throne at the far end of the hall, he moved towards the man atop it when he felt a sword grazing his throat. Freezing, he glanced sideways to the woman he hadn’t even seen before. He was stuck by her appearance. Dark greyish skin, pointed ears, sharp angular features. Was this one of the races gerdur had mentioned, the Dark Elves?  
“State your business. And don't take another step towards the Jarl.” her accent rang oddly in his ears. He swallowed uncomfortably. “I bring word from Gerdur of Riverwood. It's about the dragon attack at Helgen.” 

A gruff voice from the throne called out. “Let him through, Irileth. I want to hear what the stranger has to say.” The Dark Elf lowered her sword slowly. Folkar rubbed his throat, and attempted a weak smile. “Jarl Balgruuf, Gerdur asked me to tell you the rumours of a dragon being seen at Helgen are true.” “Oh?” he says.”And how do you know this?” 

After a pause, Folkar let his annoyance shine through. “I had a pretty good look at it whilst the Empire was trying to remove my head.” Seconds passed. Folkar began to regret his bluntness when suddenly the Jarl let out a booming laugh. “Your honesty is unexpected, but shows spirit.” He grinned. “Besides, who the Empire wants to kill is no importance to me. You have proven your valour and courage to me, and that is what I care about.” 

After a brief conversation with his advisors, Balgruuf turned once more to Folkar. “If you are up to it, I have a job for a man of your caliber. You will be rewarded, of course.” Deciding that being in the Jarl’s good books wasn't a bad idea, Folkar nodded his assent. 

Following the burly man to a room off the great hall, they came across a robed man chanting at a glowing table. After a brief introduction, the black-clad figure turned to Folkar. “So, you are the mercenary Balgruuf promised to hire. Very well. Listen well and listen closely, as I hate repeating myself. In some old ruins above Riverwood, called Bleak Falls Barrow, is something I need. A stone tablet, about yea big, covered in runes. You're going to fetch it for me. Questions? No? Wonderful, now fuck off, I'm very busy.” Irritated by the man's abrupt rudeness, Folkar rolled his eyes and walked off. 

Still, a job was a job, and if he was to survive in this world, he would need funds. Although somehow, he doubted this would be an easy task.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Folkar reached his destination with relative ease. There were two bandits outside the ruins, but they were half asleep and he dispatched them with little effort. Pushing the ruin’s doors open, he slipped inside. Ahead, two bandits sat by a small campfire chatting and polishing weapons. 

Silently counting to three, Folkar strode forward and before the first bandit could do more than cry out in surprise, Folkar's sword severed the man's head in one clean swing. With a flick, he reversed the sword's path and sent it piercing the other bandit’s stomach. They slowly dropped, coughing blood. Noticing an embossed shield leaning up against a pillar, Folkar picked it up and moved deeper into the ruins.

After an hour searching the ruins, including some near misses with some very nasty traps, he came across a room filled with corpses. “Some kind of burial chamber, I ‘spose.” he mused aloud. 

Before he could take another step, an animalistic growl reverberated through the room.   
Without warning, one of the corpses stood up and roared. Fear glued Folkar's feet to the ground, and he looked on with abject horror as that thing pulled a small axe from a loop on its belt. He could do nothing but watch as the dead creature ran towards him, raising the axe above its head. 

Only his instincts overriding his fear at the last second kept him alive. Blocking the blow with his new shield, he began retreating back up the steps, when out of the corner of his eye he saw two more of these undead monstrosities approaching. Panicked, he swung wildly at the corpse in front of him. To his surprise, the creature's spine snapped from the force of the blow, and it collapsed into a pile of bones and rotted flesh. 

So, they could be killed. Or, defeated at least. Folkar wasn't sure if you could kill a dead person. Armed with this knowledge, he made short work of the other two. Skirting the newly dead bodies, he continued on. Several more times, he ran into more of whatever these things are.

Folkar came into a large room with a coffin standing in front of a curved wall covered in strange symbols. The wall seemed to be … thrumming. Folkar could sense the power emanating from the wall. As he moved closer, his vision dimmed and he cried out. One of the symbols from the wall was glowing, and after a thunderous crash, Folkar could somehow understand. He somehow knew what the symbol meant, but he couldn’t explain how. It was written in no language he could understand, and if asked to explain what it was, he would have no answer. Yet he felt the word in his very soul. Fus. force. 

Before Folkar could think on the matter more, the lid of the coffin was blown clean off, shattering in two. An unearthly growl came from its depths, and a skeletal hand grasped the side. Another foul corpse rose up, but this one seemed … different. It was larger, better armoured, and Folkar could feel the hatred radiating from the thing ten paces away.

Its head snapped around to fixate on Folkar. Screeching, it ran toward him at blinding speed. Folkar barely had time to raise his shield above his head before the creature’s first blow thudded down, driving him to his knees. A flurry of strikes rained down on Folkar, who could feel the shield begin to give way. 

In the short time between swings, Folkar lunged forward, bashing the shield into the creature's chestplate. As it stumbled backwards, Folkar swept its legs from underneath it with a low kick. Jumping over the creature's wild swing at his ankles, he drove his boots straight into the monster's skull, crushing it. 

Staggering back, he tried to calm his racing pulse and slow his breathing. Regaining his composure, he began searching the room for the tablet. He found it in a locker close to the coffin, along with a pouch of gold coins and a strange crystal the size of his hand. Hoping it would be valuable, he stuffed both into his rucksack.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Jarl looked at him with surprise as Folkar described his descent into the ancient crypt. Nodding grimly at Folkar's description of the undead beings, he said “Ah, so that was your first time encountering draugr.” He sighed. “Many of my people believe they were once men who served the dragons long ago, and were cursed with undeath for their treachery.” 

Before he could elaborate, a guard ran into the room. Whispering in the jarl's ear, Folkar could see the news had deeply troubled the old man. Balgruuf turned to him, rubbing his chin. “You have done much for my city, but if I may, I will ask one more task of you. A dragon has attacked the western tower, and as you are the only one with experience in that arena, will you assist my guards in its defense. You will be rewarded as befitting your deeds, naturally.” 

With a small smile, Folkar nodded. Why the hell not. He doubted this day could get any weirder. He looked to Irileth, the captain of the guard. “Lead on, captain. Lets kill this bastard together.” A vicious smile danced across the captain's face. Beckoning the other guards in the room, she strode out without a word.

It was less than a mile to the tower. As they drew nearer, Folkar grew uneasy. Where was the damn thing? A beast that size should be in sight by now. Dismounting, the captain ordered the soldiers to search the ruins of the tower for survivors. 

Before they could get much farther, an earth-shattering roar shook the plains. “Here it comes! Bows, at the ready! Fire on my signal!” Irileth barked. The guards managed a single volley before having to dive out of the way of the dragons flames. Folkar noticed this one was slightly smaller than the one at Helgen, and a forest green colour. 

Hefting his sword, Folkar realised that until the creature landed, he could even look for an opening. After a few passes, the dragon caught one of the guards in its talons. The guards' screams were cut short when the beast dashed her against the tower walls. Roaring again, the dragon landed on two of the guards, crushing them under foot. 

Folkar saw his opening and sprinted forward. Rolling to avoid the fire gushing past him, he bounced back to his feet and forged on. There! On the beasts neck, one of its scales had been dislodged by an arrow. Now, to get in close enough. Ducking beneath its sweeping claws, he came face to face with the dragon.

He stood, rooted to the spot in fear. He could see hate and anger in the creatures eyes, but also cunning, intelligence and malice. The dragon bared its teeth, preparing to strike. Driven by pure instinct, Folkar punched the dragon on the snout. 

Shocked at his daring, the dragon reared back, exposing its neck. Seeing his only chance, Folkar thrust his sword forward. Praying to whatever deity would hear him, eyes closed, he shuddered at the dragon's roar. 

He stood there for what seemed an eternity, only opening his eyes as he heard the dragon slump to the ground. Staring in shock, he looked around to see the surviving guards move closer warily. They looked at him with awe and no small amount of respect. “Its .. is it … dead?” 

They jumped back as the dragon began to glow. Everyone watched in amazement as the dragon's flesh disintegrated, and a swirling vortex of light left the dragon and flooded into Folkar. Feeling a strange power deep in his core, the word from the crypt began searing itself into his mind. It glowed with a blinding light, as though it was becoming pure energy. Groaning, Folkar clasped his head against the pounding headache.

Suddenly, as soon as it had arrived, the pain subsided. Following his gut, Folkar said the word aloud. Fus. as he spoke, the word seemed to tear the very air in front of him, and a ripple of energy surged forward, knocking several guards to their knees. Panting, Folkar staggered, whatever that was having taken its toll on him. Silence fell. 

After a few minutes, Folkar looked up to see a look of reverence on some of the guards faces, outright fear on the others. Then one took a step forward, dropped to one knee and bowed his head. With a quaver in his voice, he spoke.

“Hail, Dragonborn.”


End file.
